Justice League in Conquering Boredom the Superhero Way
by NWHS
Summary: A silly, self-indulgent series of one-shots that look at what some members of the Justice League do when they experience a bout of boredom.
1. Chapter 1: Batman

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Author's Note:**

Okay, so this is the deal. I've been snowed in for two days and need a break from graduate work. So I came up with this really silly idea for a fic and decided to poke a little fun at a few of my favorite Justice League characters. That should be enough of a warning for you.

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**CONQUERING BOREDOM THE SUPERHERO WAY**

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**Chapter 1: Batman**

**Gotham**

The Dark Knight was bored out of his genius skull. Sure, Gotham was a city that never slept and something was always going on, assholes to scare with his infamous Bat glare, thugs to beat the shit out of, and all around crazies and losers to haul to Blackgate Penitentiary or Arkham Asylum.

The same ole, same ole in the life of Gotham's masked protector. So one wouldn't think that night life in Gotham would bring on the doldrums, but they would be utterly, unforgivingly wrong, because Batman was living, breathing, mind-numbing proof that the superhero gig could be an absolute bore.

Watching the street below his perch from one of many buildings he traversed during the course of his nightly patrol, Batman swore. Perhaps, over the past months, he'd done his job too well, because not a questionable soul was on the street doing unsavory things that would give him a legitimate excuse to try out the new five-attack combination he'd been working on. Simulated and wooden dummies weren't enough of a challenge. Batman needed live, human dummies to practice his superior martial skills against.

A twinge of guilt washed over Batman. He'd donned the mask to protect the good people of Gotham, to make the urban city a better place to have and raise a family. And that wouldn't happen if the likes of Joker and Clayface were on the loose, or if gangs were allowed to flourish, adding to the ills of neighborhoods with their violence and drugs. So the fact that on a Saturday, of all nights, Gotham was quiet, Batman should've been happy, proud even.

Shouldn't he?

He should and he was. But that didn't also mean Batman wasn't one bored to tears Justice Leaguer itching to put this night to rest with a good, old fashioned bout of fisticuffs. Like an addict, the Dark Knight craved his nightly fix.

He shrugged, the shadows on the rooftop hiding him and his non-hero secret. No one had to know what Batman did on nights like tonight when the lowlifes were too scared, tired, or hung-over to come out and play a game of Catch Me If You Can with the Bat.

Dropping his hand to his utility belt, Batman pushed a single button.

Then smiled, wide and wicked and so uncharacteristic of him. And what Batman fanboy said he didn't have a sense of humor? Oh, the masked crusader definitely had a sense of humor. Perhaps one that only a hunter like him could appreciate, but it was most assuredly there, under layers of armor, nonchalance, and playboy charms.

More importantly, his brand of humor, no matter how dry, questionable, or even legal, had its uses in the grand scheme of things. _Very grand scheme of things. But I'm rich. I'm Bat-fucking-man, so I can do what in the hell I want in my damn city._

So he waited, having calculated how long he'd have to cool his boots before tonight's boredom would come to a fist-pounding and blood-spurting end.

The countdown he began was pointless but it killed the time it took for Batman to propel himself from the roof, down to the alley below, and into his waiting Batmobile. The car, sleek, long, and made to last, Alfred had once questioned whether it was meant to compensate for something Bruce Wayne lacked. He'd speed dialed Selina, posed the question to her, and then had given Alfred the phone. _Enough said, old man._

Batman revved his engines and sped from the alley, intentionally clipping a van illegally parked in a handicapped spot.

Thirteen minutes later, Batman approached Gotham Bay. In the center of the small island lay Blackgate Penitentiary.

That smile of his shimmered like a wraith in the January night just as the Bat signal flashed in the darkened sky above the prison.

Alarms from the island blared, long and loud, while spotlights glared, scanning the water below the imposing edifice and the surrounding boulders that lunged violently from the rushing rapids.

His Gotham PD communicator beeped.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Hand to his ear, Batman spoke, voice low and gravelly.

"Batman."

"Commissioner Gordon. We have an emergency out at Blackgate. I can't explain it, but Bane's escaped his cell. He's on the loose and the guards are no match for him. How long before you can get out there?"

Bruce looked across the water before hitting a button on his belt and lifting into the air when wings launched from his armor.

"Tell the guards I'll be there as soon as I can."

Batman disconnected.

As he drew closer to the island, his infrared lenses scouring the land below, Batman spotted his prey.

The smile returned.

And boredom was no longer a factor this night.

Dropping from the sky as quiet and nimble as a panther, Batman caught Bane unaware. The big bastard didn't even have time to blink before Batman executed his five-attack combo. It wouldn't be enough to take him out. Bane never lost that easily. If he did, what would be the fun in that?

Staggering to his feet, Bane snarled at Batman then rushed him, all long arms and muscled body.

Batman sidestepped the steroid freak.

Oh, yeah, he'd kicked boredom's ass and was about to make Bane his bitch.

_Game on._

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**_THE END_**


	2. Chapter 2: Flash

**Chapter 2: Flash**

It was Friday evening, Wally's monitor duty shift was almost over. He had the entire weekend before him and not a damn thing on his speedster's schedule to look forward to. The lonely life of a bachelor, he knew, although he hoped no one else did. He did, after all, have a "ladies man" reputation to uphold. Now, if he could only convince the women of the League that he didn't do everything at top speed, he could get a date and catch a break.

Bored, Wally spun in his chair. Over and over and over, increasing the speed as he went, until—_dammit_—the piece of crap Wayne chair cracked, bucked, and heaved Flash across the room and against a wall.

Fly meet wall—_crash_.

Fly zero.

Wall one.

Wally slid down the wall—head over ass—and onto the hard floor. _Cool. Real cool. Good thing none of the ladies were around to see this latest catastrophe._

Yet . . .

Black boots met barely opened eyes. _Ah, hell. Almost as worse as making a fool of myself in front of Dinah or Shayera._

"What have I told you about sleeping on the job?"

"Nothing. You told me to not drool on the expensive equipment while I slept. I took that to mean I should use a bib the next time I took a nap while on duty."

Wally swore the Bat narrowed his eyes at him, but he could never be sure with those lenses the man hid behind. But his snarled words of, "I can order a bib for you, if you like. Either that or a child-safety harness for the new chair you _will _be purchasing."

With more than a little effort, Wally pushed his aching body from the floor. He hated sharing monitor duty with Batman. The guy really needed to loosen that utility belt of his and learn how to have a bit of fun. Not face-against-the-wall kind of fun, though, but watching nude women's wrestling, scratch-your-balls-when-you think-no one-is-watching, and hit-on-hot-drunk chicks kind of fun.

As it was, the onetime Wally was pretty sure the Batman actually took a piss Wally had to be caught with his ass up and head down, like some kind of porn star, when the alpha male of the League returned. And—_thank god_—Batman was standing in front of Wally instead of behind him or the scene would've taken on a level of bromance Wally wasn't _that_ bored to engage in.

"How about a race?"

"A what?"

"A race, something to get the blood and juices flowing. I'm bored, and when I'm bored I like to race. Me versus your Batmobile. So what do you say?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Batman turned away from Wally and to the computer screens. There was nothing of importance going on, no matter how hard the Batman glared at the images. For once, all was relatively quiet around the world, or at least the dangers that did present themselves didn't require the Justice League's intervention. Believe it or not, local law enforcement were capable of taking care of most of their problems.

"Ask someone else."

Of course Batman would say that. The man had no imagination or real sense of daring. Because, really, red was the new black. Black was just . . . well, as boring as Batman.

_As boring as the rest of this Friday will be unless I find something fun to do._

Knowing Batman was a dead end, Wally headed out convinced he could find someone who'd be interested in a quick race around the world.

After being turned down by Shazam, Superman, and Wonder Woman, Wally felt even more bored. His friends were a bunch of dullards who wouldn't know a good time if it landed in front of them looking like Darkseid in a thong and stilettos.

Frustrated, Wally changed clothes then beamed down to Washington, D.C. Maybe there he could find some action and kill a few hours. It seemed like racing was out, unless, of course, he had Cyborg beam him to Kingston, Jamaica. Usain Bolt owed the Flash for the tips he'd given him before the 2008 Olympics. But the man had gone all arrogant on Wally after being dubbed "Lightning Bolt."

_As if._

Wally didn't know why he was messing around trying to find someone to race against him. Even if he found a worthy opponent, the challenge would be over in a matter of seconds. Then he would be right back to where he began, bored and needing an outlet for his abundance of energy.

His mother once told him that some people only needed a little smack upside their head to get them straight.

Wally smiled. He knew plenty of people who could use a quick smack upside their head. And who better to give it to them than the Scarlet Speedster? Better yet, no one would ever know it was Wally West who'd delivered the blow, but they would remember it, perhaps the next time they are about to do something really stupid.

_Like spinning like a fool in a three thousand dollar Wayne Enterprises chair until it broke. _

He vibrated until the red of his uniform appeared, revealing the Flash and his brilliant plan to end boredom.

_This is going to be epic_. _Now for my list of victims . . . I mean poor souls I intend to help see the light._

Five minutes later, Flash had his mental list. It was a long one, long enough to take him through the weekend. Well, he would just see how far he got in his list tonight. Saturday was hours away, no need planning for that tonight.

He reviewed his list again, sorting people demographically and mapping the most efficient route.

Since he was already in the nation's capital, that would cover a good third of his list. He could spend an entire evening in this city alone, doling out deserving smacks upside the head. As it was, he began at the White House and swiftly worked his way to the Capitol and Supreme Court, smacking politicians, judges, lobbyists, and news reporters upside their biased and judgmental heads, saying as he did so, "Report on this."_ Smack. _Then, because he had time and they were overdue for a lesson in civic responsibility and accountability, Flash circled D.C. twice more, adding a few drug dealers, pimps, and cyberbullies to his list.

There were enough smacks to go around.

Up and down the East Coast Flash went. He'd just double-smacked Chris Christie and it had felt good to bring the New Jersey governor to his hefty knees. But Flash made sure to get out of there before Christie had one of his aides shut off Flash's route out of town.

Yet there was one place he had to go before he moved on to the rest of the United States.

Just as Batman stood over a downed and defeated Bane, breathing heavy from the fight, fists still balled, a big shit eating grin on his face . . . _Smack!_

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**_THE END_**


	3. Chapter 3: Shazam

**Chapter 3: Shazam**

**Philadelphia**

Billy Batson walked the streets of southern Philly, hours after he should've been home. Curfew was stupid and lame and was intended for kids who didn't have the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the courage of Achilles, and the speed of Mercury at their fingertips. With a single word—_Shazam_—Billy had it all.

But none of that mattered when you were just a foster kid living off the kindness of others. Not that all of Billy's foster parents were kind, mind you. Some of them were downright assholes who should've never been allowed to have any kids in their home. _Not even their own._

No, something was definitely messed up about the Philadelphia Department of Human Services. Child welfare may have been their mission, but they'd obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere, if Billy's experience was the norm. And, unfortunately, he knew the system well enough to understand that the little abuse he'd suffered was nothing compared to the abuse of other kids at the hands of their so-called "caregivers."

Night had fallen hours ago, but Billy's route did not turn towards home. He wasn't ready to call it a night. Even with his new home, only restlessness and boredom awaited him there. And Billy was so tired of being bored, especially after having joined the League and experiencing what real power and glory were about.

The rush that came from knocking a bad guy through a wall or punching some jerk-off in the face, or simply leaving his old life in the dust when he took to the sky, was invigorating, intoxicating even. _A natural high. Better than that shit some kids sell at school. _

But as fifteen-year old Billy Batson, life was an endless cycle of school and chores. For the most part, he didn't mind the chores, especially when he would just pop in his ear buds and let his favorite songs take him away. _Pandora is the greatest invention, evah._

But Algebra II, American Government, and Chemistry were not. When would Billy ever need to know how to apply the rules of exponents to simplify expressions involving negative and/or fractional exponents, which—_kiss his skinny ass_—was what his douchebag of a math teacher quizzed his class on today. _And I failed. Way to go, moron. The wisdom of Solomon my arse. _

And that was just that. As Shazam, Billy was awesome, capable of performing the greatest of superhero feats, on par with Superman. Hell, forget the Man of Steel, Shazam could kick Wonder Woman's love sick puppy's behind in a New York minute.

Billy sighed. Being a kid and having to listen to adults was the cruelest of punishments. They weren't nearly as smart as they thought. _All high and mighty_, he scoffed, shuffling his feet as he trudged down the street, book bag heavy on his back. No, adults, especially teachers, were just a bunch of losers who got their jollies off on bossing around kids whose lives they held in the center of their hands. Or, in Billy's teachers' cases, his grade.

Some days he really wished . . . Billy's frown morphed—like magic—into a full-on clown smile without the goofy polka dot get-up and girlie make-up. He had it. A way to cure his Friday night boredom and a way to get a little payback. _Yes, this is going to be the prank to end all pranks._

Slipping into the nearest alley, Billy sank down beside a Dumpster, and then unzipped his book bag. When the school year started, all the students were given their teacher's contact information for emergencies and school-related questions. The school touted the new initiative as a way of increasing teacher-to-home communication and student academic achievement. Up until tonight, Billy didn't need to be told that teachers were not expected to respond to phone calls or e-mails after eight o'clock, because he had no intention of calling any of them. Hell, if he didn't have to speak up in class, Billy would've been happy to go through his entire day like a freakin' mute.

Locating the paper he'd shoved into one of his homework folders, Billy pulled it out. Then, making sure no one else was in the alley, Billy stood and looked around. When he saw nor heard anyone, Billy said, "Shazam."

Within seconds, a huge bolt of lightning crashed through Philly's night sky, barreling straight for Billy and slamming into him, sending the teen against the wall behind him.

If anyone else witnessed this moment of magic, they would've called 911, thinking him an unlucky bastard who'd just been struck dumb by lightning. But if they'd stayed and watched what came next, that person may have questioned their eyes, their very sanity. Because—_hell yes_—Billy was all grown up, a mass of muscles and power, and rockin' red in a way the Flash could never pull off.

_Shazam, yeah, baby, that's what I'm talkin' about._

Yanking his bag from the ground, Billy shot into the sky. Three minutes later, he hovered above his high school, searching for a way in. Five more minutes, Billy was inside the main office, heading towards the principal's office. He could walk it in his sleep, so many times he'd been to the hair-challenged man's office. Which, to be honest, Billy would not have cared, but Mr. Wallace was a close talker, who actually came around his desk and sat next to students to "better understand" them. And what's worse than a close talker? A close talker with a bad case of halitosis. _Damn moose-breath condom head._

Billy shuddered at the thought, then slapped the teacher directory on Mr. Wallace's desk before pulling the man's desk phone to him.

Scanning the list, Billy found the phone number to his American Government teacher. The woman could not have been less than sixty and way the hell past retirement age, and obviously way past the point where she actually taught her students. Which, for Billy and his classmates, meant reading a dull government textbook every day and answering section review questions. That was it. Every. Damn. Day.

Billy dialed Mrs. Crofton's phone number. Not surprisingly, it took the lazy hag seven rings before she picked up.

"Hello."

"Hello, yeah, I'm calling for Jennifer Crofton."

"This is Jennifer."

"Great. Great. Look, Jen, I have a shipment of dildos for you. My driver's a little backed up so I'm calling to let you know he's going to be a tad late on your delivery. Hope you don't mind."

"Wait, wait. I didn't order any d-d-dildos."

"Well, umm, are you Jennifer Crofton?"

"Yes, but—"

"And do you live at 8522 Sheetrock Road?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then I've got the right person. No need to be ashamed, doll. This happens a lot in my business. People order stuff in the privacy of their home over the net, maybe when the hubby's not a home. Then, once it's time to accept the order, they get all Mother Theresa."

"I'm not getting all Mother Theresa on you. I just didn't order . . ."

"Dildos? It's okay, you can say the world. No one has to know about your inner freak."

"_Inner freak_? Look here—"

"Anyway, my guy should be at your door in an hour. Get Your Nasty On Inc. always delivers."

Mrs. Crofton swore, low but foul. The woman actually had quite the sewer mouth.

"Look, for the last time, I didn't place a damn order with your company. And I don't want that driver coming to my home."

"Well now, that's going to be a problem. The items are already paid for and can't be returned."

"Well, you'll just have to. If he comes I just won't open the door. You can't make me take something that I don't want and didn't order."

"Look, Jen, baby, I have the invoice right on my screen. Your name and address, as well as a secondary address. It says right here that you ordered two 8-inch All American Whoppers, one Mr. Softee Dong, one Red Devil Butt Plug, and three Backdoor Buddies." Billy suppressed a laugh. "Well, it seems like you have one hell of an imagination, Jen. Have a lot of friends, do you? Or are you planning on having one of those girlie parties?"

"You're disgusting. For the last god damn time, I didn't order that stuff and you better tell your driver to skip my house. I'm not at home."

"Fine. If you insist, then I'll just have the driver drop it off tomorrow at the secondary address we have on file."

"Fine. Do whatever in the hell you want. But I better not see your delivery truck in my neighborhood or I'll call the cops."

Billy thought, for sure, that Crotchety Crofton was about to hang up. Then she proved that she still had a functioning brain in her head after all, when she said, "Wait. What secondary address?"

"Oh, some local high school. I'll have my man deliver it there to the main office sometime tomorrow. Since you already paid, no signature is required. Just all in the full-service provided at Get Your Nasty On Inc."

"No, no, no. That's where I—"

_Click._

Work. Yeah, Billy knew.

He tumbled out of the chair, laughing. The woman probably wouldn't even show up for work tomorrow, which was fine by Billy. Or maybe she would show up only to stalk the main office waiting for a delivery driver who would never arrive. Or maybe she'd spend the rest of the night searching for the fictitious company on the net and trying to explain to her husband why she ordered from Get Your Nasty On, Inc.

Laugh tears clouding his vision, Billy glanced at the clock on the wall. It was way past curfew and the foster parents would have his ass for coming in so late. Grabbing his gear, Billy made his way out of the school and back into the sky.

That had been so much fun. Next Friday he would get around to his math or science teacher. At this rate, Billy wouldn't be bored for the next two Fridays.

He grinned.

Flying higher and higher, Billy realized something important. _Crap. I gotta take a leak._

He was so busy laughing it up in Mr. Wallace's office, Billy had forgotten that half-way through his prank call, he'd had to go to the bathroom. And while home wasn't that far off, he knew he would never make it.

But he was way up in the air, not even birds around to see him. Yanking down his pants, just enough, Billy reached down and pulled himself out. Something else he loved about being Shazam. The guy was packin' all over, no man-in-training penis for him. No, sir.

Then Billy recalled that his snotty math teacher, after handing back his failed quiz, had said something to him today about having "a lot of potential for growth." Which, Billy knew, was his superior adult way of saying that kids like Billy didn't belong in his honors algebra class."

"Well," he said, pointing his snake away from his uniform so he wouldn't piss down his leg, "I have your growth potential right here."

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Flash was having so much fun. He'd lost count of how many people he'd smacked upside their head. Stopping so he could laugh his ass off at the stunned gasp that was Batman when Flash had paid him back for . . . well, being Batman.

Taking in the cool, Philly night air, Flash lifted his face to the sky . . . and felt the first drops of rain on his cheek, his nose. Ah, he loved running in the rain.

Eyes wide, he opened his mouth to drink in nature's liquid sunshine.

One second.

Two

Three.

He coughed. Chocked.

It tasted like . . .

Eyes burned. _Shit, eyes are on fire._

_"Not rain. Not. Rain.!"_

**_THE END_**


End file.
